


da satinalia 2017

by rievu



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-17 23:26:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13087662
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rievu/pseuds/rievu
Summary: written for dasatinalia week on tumblr!it's essentially a series of small drabbles for the various prompts hehe





	1. legacy

**Author's Note:**

> ★ DAY ONE || DECEMBER 18 || LEGACY  
> children, new and old generations, long lost siblings and newfound cousins… today we celebrate the intricate webs of families, whether it be about your favorite character’s descendants or the daily life of another, stuck between fighting darkspawn and changing diapers.

Marian Hawke grows up without knowing a single bit about the Amell family. Well, that’s a lie. The only thing that she vaguely knows is the fact that they’re noble. Her mother never lets Marian forget that whether it be soft reminders to watch her etiquette at the dinner table or sighs about the way that she runs through the town with the local boys while wearing torn trousers.

Then, on one cold Haring day, her mother casually mentions, “I expect that Gamlen is preparing for Satinalia around this time too.” Her father only nods as he continues to chew his mouthful of toast, but Marian stares at her mother across the breakfast table, her interest piqued.  
Bethany glances up from her plate of scrambled eggs as she asks in her piping voice, “Uncle Gamlen, Mama?”

Mother’s eyes soften with a wistful expression as she replies, “Yes, your Uncle Gamlen.” She smiles a little bit as she reminisces, “Oh, the Amell house would be decked with boughs of holly and pine wreaths for Satinalia. Your Uncle Gamlen and I would light candles. My cousin, Revka, would come over to help decorate.” Her voice trails off, and Marian can see how her expression cracks a little bit. “I don’t know how Revka is doing,” her mother murmurs. “I never heard from her again, not after they took her daughter — “ She immediately cuts the sentence off and begins to eat her breakfast again.

“Daughter?” Carver asks while prodding at his food with a fork. “Do we have any other relatives our age?” Bethany leans in closer to Carver, eyes alight, as she excitedly asks, “Oh, Mama, Mama, can they come visit?” Marian blinks, intrigued herself, but for once, she elects to shut up and eat her food quietly.  
Her father sighs a little bit and says gently, “You know why they can’t come visit, Bethy.” Bethany’s eyes dim slightly in their excitement, and she resumes eating. Carver swings his legs sullenly and insists, “But I want to know about Aunt Revka’s daughter!”

Marian decides to jump into the conversation; it’s not like her mother can get particularly mad at her if Carver and Bethany were insisting too. “I’d like to know too, Mother,” she says. “Was she a particularly criminal kind of girl? Or…?” Her voice trails off, not needing to say the obvious. But judging from her mother’s expression, it is the obvious.  
“Revka’s daughter was a mage,” her mother admits. “We’ve always had magic in our bloodline.” Marian looks down at her hands, and a small spark flies from her fingertips. She silences the spark before it can grow larger by clenching her hand into a fist, but she knows that it hasn’t gone unnoticed based on Bethany’s and Father’s looks at her. Her mother sighs, “The last time I heard, she was being sent off to the Ferelden Circle. I don’t know much other than that.”

A depressing kind of silence falls around the breakfast table, but Bethany breaks it by saying forlornly, “I hope that our cousin is doing okay, wherever she is.” Marian is inclined to disagree; chances are, the girl’s either been stretched far too thin by demons or templars or captivity. Her father’s stories about the Circle are sugar-coated and rose-tinted for the sake of Bethany and her relatively young ages, but Marian still hears whispers between her parents and what the local templars sometimes comment.

That year, Bethany and Marian and Carver all light a candle together for Cousin Amell. Carver holds the candle while Bethany and Marian stick their fingers to the wick and set it alight. The flame flickers and burns cheerily against the small boughs of pine branches and holly that Father and Carver had dragged in. The scent of baking pastries fills the air as her mother bakes the special Satinalia bread and treats. Marian curls up in front of the fireplace with the mabari, wondering how Cousin Amell is spending her Satinalia.

Years later, when the Blight is spreading throughout Ferelden and Marian is firing off blasts of fire continuously as she mourns for her dead sister, she doesn’t have time to think about Satinalia or Cousin Amell. Instead, she thinks only about survival and moves around constantly to keep her family _alive_. Then, all things went to hell as a dragon descends from the skies and somehow, Marian manages to make a deal.  
But, Flemeth, the unholy dragon grandmother, whatever she is, looks at her curiously before she leaves them near the Ferelden ports. Marian, no, it’s _Hawke_ , now. Hawke swears that she could hear the witch mutter, “those Amells”, under her breath before she took off soaring into the darkening sky.

She doesn’t find out what she means by it. At least, she has no inklings about it.  
Not until the Blight in Ferelden is over, and Warden Amell is lauded as the Hero of Ferelden throughout Thedas.

That year, Carver and Mother and she all gather together to light another Satinalia candle for Cousin Amell. Hawke hopes that perhaps, just _perhaps_ , Cousin Amell will feel this somehow, somewhere, and remember the chance that she has family here. Family for her.


	2. awakenings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ DAY TWO || DECEMBER 19 || AWAKENINGS  
> ahhh, the bitter taste of regret. on the second day, everything is a good opportunity to make amends, to reconcile and find redemption, perhaps, or to forgive an old enemy. how would your favorite character handle the ghosts of christmas past? how would they find inner peace and comfort?

Satinalia is a new celebration, Solas thinks. A different permutation of what used to be.  
  
There was still a celebration around this time of year. The crystalline spires of Arlathan would be slightly altered to mimic the patterns of snowflakes, and snow would be coaxed out of the skies even in warmer climates. Although, Solas amends mentally, the elves in the warmer climates stopped the snow summoning after a couple of hours so that they could go on the beaches in their thin, fluttering silk robes. He wryly smiles as he remembers some of the… More exposed. Beaches. He also spent a few celebrations on said beaches as well.

What could he do? He was young once.  
Once.

Solas sighs heavily as he leans back in his high-backed chair. The murals that he has painted stretch up far above, and he smiles as he gazes at the painstaking detail that he spent so long on. Perhaps this will be another legacy to live on whether it be in here or in the Fade.

In Elvhenan, some elves liked to raise the tallest of evergreen trees and infuse them with magic throughout their growth so that they would sparkle and shine with inherent light on winter’s day. With snow weighing down on their incandescent boughs, Solas would wrap a cloak of magic around his body and wait for unsuspecting elves to walk over. Then, he would surprise them with a small puff of smoke or change the color of their clothes or hair (only temporarily) or some other mischief of similar like.  
Some years, he would spend the entire celebration in the form of a giant wolf and flounder through large snowdrifts as holiday music played. He twists his fingers together and chuckles slightly as he remembers the time Sylaise attached unremovable bells to a collar that Ghilan’nain made for him. He remembers snarling and rolling around in the snow, trying to get the wretched collar off. Even quiet and stoic Dirthamen laughed as the great general, Fen’Harel, was unable to escape the belled collar.

Solas shakes his head, trying to escape from the memories that filled him with so much melancholy, but no matter what he did, old memories failed to stop haunting him. The sound of Mythal’s laughter, the scent of Sylaise’s winter-flower holiday perfume, even Elgar’nan’s ridiculous red hat all remained bright and unfading in his mind’s eye. It seemed to taunt him. This Satinalia could never compare, not when the entire world felt dead to his fingers. The Veil, _his own handiwork_ , made sure of that.  
He sighs heavily and leans forward to place his elbows on his desk. He props his head up with his hands and stares down at the old oak wood of the desk. When did he first put this desk in Skyhold? Didn’t June make him this desk once as a winter holiday gift? Or was that a gift for something else entirely? He thanks his lucky stars that Lavellan has not yet found the garish orange gift that Falon’Din gave him once at some inane autumnal festival. He stuffed _that_ one far far below the Undercroft so that no one could ever find it. He also suspects that Falon’Din foisted the “gift” off on him so that _he_ wouldn’t have to deal with it.

Solas leans back against his chair and glances up at the tall, vaulted ceiling. Ravens flap above as they deposit messages for Leliana, but the usual people milling around in the library are strangely absent. Suddenly, the door to the rotunda slams in, and the Inquisitor herself bounds in with Dorian in tow.

“This really isn’t necessary,” Dorian grumbles as Lavellan drags him along by the wrist. His voice has none of the usual acidic sarcasm in it though. “I am perfectly capable of walking by myself, thank you very much.”  
“It’s the holiday season!” Lavellan crows with delight. She turns her bright and happy gaze onto him and calls out, “We are having a celebration!” Her nose and cheeks are bright red from the wintry air, but her expression remains brilliant as ever. Even Mythal’s branches inscribed on her face cannot dampen her excitement. It’s actually rather charming and endearing. She lets go of Dorian’s wrist, and he shakes his wrist with mock concern.  
“I’m afraid you’re not getting out of this, Solas,” he advises. “She dragged me down from the second floor even though I was going to go already. They have mulled wine, and I intend to judge this southern iteration of it for myself.”

“I,” Solas starts hesitantly. He doesn’t know if he should. He already knows that Satinalia cannot compare to what it used to be in the old days.  
But before he can say another word, Lavellan strides over to his desk and reaches out to hold his hand. Her fingers intertwine with his, but she does not tug or demand. Instead, she waits, patient and enduring, and a small smile curves its way across her lips. It’s such a stark contrast to her bubbling laughter when she came in, but it is still very much her. Frankly, he would say that the kind of extroverted joy that was on her face was a rare one to see. “Please, _emma lath_ ,” she says gently. “You may sit and brood on another day, but not this one. Today is a day to live and let go.”  
Solas stares up at her and relents. And as he stands up, he continues to hold her hand, clinging on tight to the connection between them. The anchor suddenly flares and warms them both with sparks of mana, and he huffs a small laugh. He reaches out to caress her cheek, and his own magic skids against hers. Beautiful and new and wonderfully familiar.

“Please,” Dorian suddenly scoffs. He clears his throat and says loudly, “You may kiss and be disgusting with your love under some sprig of mistletoe _at_ the actual party itself. Please don’t do it here. Now. In front of my face.”  
Lavellan glances back and laughs, “You may go on ahead, Dorian, and have your mulled wine.”  
“ _Thank_ you,” Dorian sniffs. He pauses and gives Solas a once-over. “Don’t take too long though,” he says. The way he says it makes him seem like some stuffy governess. “It would be a shame to miss most of the party, and most of all, _me._ ” He flounces out of the rotunda, and Lavellan laughs once more, warm and bubbling and delightful.

“Shall we go then?” Solas asks.  
Lavellan nods and tugs Solas closer to her side as they follow Dorian out of the rotunda. And as Solas walks farther and farther away from his room and the looming murals that stretch upwards, he feels like he’s walking away from the ghosts of memories and holidays long past. It is a strange feeling. But it is more peaceful and comforting than he expects.


	3. crystal grace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ DAY THREE || DECEMBER 20 || CRYSTAL GRACE  
> or rather… mistletoe. have your favorite characters kissed yet? have they confessed, or are they already in a relationship? give their love the spotlight on the third day, between a few bites of gingerbread.

“So.”

Kadir Adaar twists his fingers and blinks at Dorian. His gut feels like it’s churning, and quite frankly, he just wants to blurt out the question, but he  _ knows _ that he has to be more gracious and charming and charismatic about it. After all, that is who Dorian is, and Kadir just wants to impress.

Dorian leans forward and props his head up on his hand atop his desk as he replies, “So.”  
Kadir Adaar twists his fingers and repeats, “ _ So. _ ”

Dorian sighs a little bit and gives Kadir a once-over as he says, “Must we continue his game of saying ‘so’? If you have something to tell me, just say it. Unless, you just like hearing the sound of my voice, and I can’t fault you for that because my voice  _ is _ divine. But,  _ amatus _ , I can’t say ‘so’ forever.”   
Kadir feels a little thrill in his heartbeat when Dorian says  _ amatus _ , and he imagines that it is like what  _ kadan _ is in his own language. He bites his lip and tracks Dorian’s gaze before he finally relents and asks hesitantly, “So, I was wondering, are you busy tonight?”

Dorian waves a hand towards the tomes piled on his desk and blandly says, “Well, I have several texts on necromancy and their effects on the Fade as well as several new chunks of demon remains to study, but frankly, that is work that I’d rather not do. I could always foist it off on Solas since he likes the entire Fade and dreams aspect of it.”  
Guilt tugs at Kadir as he replies apologetically, “You don’t have to spend your time with me if you’re busy.”   
Dorian wrinkles his nose and snorts, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, no, I’d rather spend time with you. Also, it’ll irritate Solas. Did you know, he wanted that research? I purposely woke up early and claimed the job for my own. I wonder what his face will look like when I toss the research back at him.” He blinks owlishly and focuses on Kadir’s face before asking, “What did you want to do?” 

“Lavellan told me that the winter constellations would be especially bright tonight,” Kadir explains. “I thought that we could go stargazing? Together? Besides, Satinalia is coming up and I thought that it might be nice to relax together in peace and quiet.”  
Dorian arches an eyebrow and asks, “Which Lavellan? Inquisitor Lavellan? Or her twin brother?” He pauses for a while and taps his finger against his chin. “Wait, no, nevermind,” he abruptly says. “Both of them tend to run around everywhere and peer into those old astrolabes on the tops of cliffs and mountains and things.”  
“So, would you like to?” Kadir asks as he walks closer. He’s right next to Dorian, and his heart feels like it’s jumping into his throat when Dorian casually raises his hand to twine it with Kadir’s. It’s so casual that Kadir feels like he shouldn’t mention it, and Dorian is still perusing through a tome as he talks. “Of course, amatus,” Dorian says as he decisively snaps the book shut. He glances up with bright eyes as he says, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

When Kadir descends the stairs, he can’t help but jump and pump his arm with a sense of victory. He whispers a litany of  _ yes yes yes _ to himself and then suddenly freezes. Solas is staring at him with a palette of paint in his hands and a brush tucked behind his ear. Kadir awkwardly waves at him and then stumbles out of the tower.  
Besides, he has no time to waste. He has to somehow convince Cullen to make sure that the night patrols don’t go near a certain section of the parapets and wheedle wine and snacks from the kitchens. He’ll also have to go digging around for some clean, warm blankets, scarves, gloves, and whatnot to keep themselves warm in the chill night air. He also has to figure out how to break the news to his sister who will no doubt tease him for ages if she finds out. And Esen Adaar always did have a way of knowing when he was doing something. Maybe it was just an older sister thing

Time seems to pass too quickly, and Kadir finds himself smiling broadly as he curls up closer to Dorian under a blanket at the top of the parapets. A staff and a broadsword are propped up against the walls; Cullen insisted on being prepared if there was some sort of attack and the night patrols were not there in that section. It is blessedly quiet, and his older sister somehow managed to wrestle Sera and the Iron Bull and any other inquisitive person away from the scene at least an hour before the actual date. A decanter of wine and a tray of snacks is set next to the weapons, and Kadir has extra blankets and cushions if needed.

“I still think that the constellation looks like a frying pan,” Kadir sighs as he looks up at the winter-night stars. Dorian huffs out a laugh that coalesces into a small cloud and replies, “No, it is not a frying pan. Although, it would have been highly entertaining if the old Tevinter astronomists decided to name it after a frying pan.”   
The two lapse into a comfortable sort of silence, and under the blankets, Dorian reaches out to grasp Kadir’s hand. When he squeezes Kadir’s hand, a flush of magic leaves him warm and cozy in the winter air. Small snowflakes have begun to float lazily down, but it’s not enough to be particularly cold or dangerous with Kadir’s precautions and Dorian’s warmth spells at hand.

Then, Dorian abruptly says, “Thank you. For this.”  
Kadir turns to tilt his head curiously at Dorian. “Oh,” he says. “It was no problem.”  It was a bit of a problem, he thinks. But any trouble was worth it if it was for Dorian. He would have been perfectly content with enduring his sister’s light teasing and cajoling Cullen if it made Dorian happy.  
“I still can’t believe this sometimes,” Dorian says softly.  
“Believe what?” Kadir wonders.  
“ _ This. Us. _ ” Dorian says with a slight incredulous tone at the lilt of his words. “I never thought that i would be able to have a relationship like this. Thank you for that.”

Kadir sheepishly laughs and rubs the back of his neck. He doesn’t know if this is the right time for it, but he feels like he should. He digs his pocket, and as Dorian looks strangely at him, he extracts a sprig of mistletoe from his pocket. Kadir holds it up above their heads and nervously looks at Dorian.  
“This might not be the right time,” Kadir says. “But I got some mistletoe and — “ 

Kadir doesn’t even finish his sentence before Dorian kisses him fully on the lips with a laugh on his lips. Kadir smiles and tugs Dorian closer before Dorian can pull away and drops the mistletoe. It lies between them as they kiss under the brilliant winter constellations and the slowly falling snowflakes.


	4. lost in dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ DAY FOUR || DECEMBER 21 || LOST IN DREAMS  
> the fourth day gives you a chance to bring your favorite characters to life in an alternate universe. modern day, crossovers nightmare before christmas, dystopian worlds… in your universe, what do they do in december? what and how do they celebrate?

Cassandra wakes up, and for a blissful moment, she thinks that she doesn't have to get up. Instead, she shuts her eyes and curls herself further into the warm nest of blankets and pillows that she's made for herself on her dorm bed. But, her roommate suddenly taps her exposed cheek with her icy-cold fingers, and Cassandra groans loudly.  
"Are you going to get up?" Leliana asks as she prods Cassandra's cheek again. "Today is the last day of classes before winter break starts." An amused smile curls its way across her lips as she comments, “Or are you planning to skip the last day and have break a day early?”

When Leliana says that, Cassandra immediately flings the warm blankets off of her and slips out of bed, her face set in a stubborn grimace. Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena Pentaghast has never missed a single day of lecture or class in her entire academic career, and she doesn’t intend to start now. Leliana simply chuckles, soft and tinkling, as she turns away to wind a soft scarf around her neck. Cassandra nods once to Leliana as a thanks for reminding her before stomping over to the dorm bathroom and washing the sleep out of her eyes.  
  
Cassandra roughly pulls off her ragged shirt and tugs on a warm sweater. Then, as she turns around to grab a pair of jeans, she catches a glimpse of glimmering white from the window. She can’t help but to gasp a little bit, a sharp intake of breath, at the expanse of brilliant snow covering the entire campus. She furrows her brow a bit and grunts when she sees distant figures floundering in the snowbanks, screaming and throwing snowballs around. She suspects that it’s Sera, the Iron Bull, and their general group of Chargers that Cassandra mentally groups under the category of “Troublemakers” with a capital T. Still, a small smile makes its way across her face as she contemplates the snow. She’s always liked it.  
  
Cassandra abruptly shakes her head and hurriedly throws on some more socially acceptable winter clothes other than her large, dragon-patterned pajamas that Dorian got her as a birthday gift last year. She gives it a small pat before she shoulders her bag; she remembers how Bull complained loudly about not getting dragon-patterned pajamas for _his_ birthday.

“Good morning,” Josephine greets when Cassandra shoves the dorm room open. Josephine was the good-natured Antivan girl who lived in the dorm directly in front of her own, and she happened to open the door when Cassandra had shoved her own open too. “It snowed,” Josephine says with a chuckle. “I don’t think that I would’ve ever seen something like this in warm, sunny Antiva.”  
Cassandra ruefully smiles as she replies, “Snow is common in Nevarran winters. Not as bad as some areas of Orlais and not as muddy as Ferelden winters.”  
Josephine tugs at the bright yellow scarf tied around her neck as she replies with an easy laugh, “Oh, I don’t know how Fereldans survive the wind and rain and mud all year long.”  
Cassandra shrugs and gives her an apologetic smile as she says, “I have to run; I don’t want to be late for class.”  
Josephine waves her off and cheerily says, “Oh no, no, don’t let me keep you! Good luck out there!”

Cassandra runs down the stairs as fast as she dares; she doesn’t want to get yelled at for “thundering down the stairs” again. The last time she tried, she woke up six other people in the dorms close to the stairs. Thin walls, she muses. A curse and blessing in one. Easy to yell and ask for something from the person next door over and get an answer, but also, absolutely terrible to try and fall asleep in. Especially if someone was having against-the-rules sex in a dorm. She shudders as she remembers that one morning when she woke up and went to class a little earlier than usual and ran into a half-naked Iron Bull in the hallway. Frankly, she doesn’t even know if having a too-small towel wrapped around your waist counts as “half-naked.”

She shakes the thought off as she reaches the front doors, and when she pushes them open, a glittering white wonderland of snow greets her. Also, she can still hear the Chargers and Sera and her Red Jennies and all of the other people they gathered as well.  
She just doesn’t have the time for that now; Cassandra Pentaghast cannot afford to be late. Not when she’s so close to having a perfect record for the rest of the year. She sighs, breath coalescing in a small cloud.

She’ll have fun later.

Once class is over.


	5. best served cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ DAY FIVE || DECEMBER 22 || BEST SERVED COLD  
> let’s be real, who doesn’t like snow? on the fifth day, watch out for blizzards and snowball fights, scarves and boots and pink noses. have your favorite characters ever seen snow? does dorian’s mustache really freeze in the cold? and what does fenris think of footwear.

“Oh, Fenris,  _ please _ tell me you’re not going out barefoot.”

Marian Hawke crosses her arms and glares at Fenris as he waits for her by the bottom of the stairs. He’s leaning slightly against the banister, and from the top of the stairs, Hawke can clearly see that he hasn’t bothered to wear any winter clothing at all. And the most concerning part is the current state of his feet; he’s barefoot as always.

“Why not,” Fenris says flatly.   
Hawke hurries down the stairs and calls out as she runs, “It’s  _ snowing _ .”  
When she reaches the bottom, Fenris is crossing his arms as well and he says almost petulantly, “Merrill does not wear shoes, and I do not see you chasing after her with boots.”

Hawke smiles at that and says rather smugly, “I actually did drop off shoes and socks by her house last night. So did Isabela and Aveline and Varric.” She taps her lips with her index finger, thinking for a while before continuing, “Anders wanted to, but he couldn’t afford the warmer shoes. And he didn’t want to give her his old, worn-out shoes since that would be a bit rude.  
Fenris sighs heavily and asks wearily, “And did she actually wear them?”  
“According to Varric, yes,” Hawke says with the same smug tone. 

Fenris grumbles loudly and Hawke’s expression softens. “Fenris, please,” she pleads. “You will freeze and your feet will turn blue and fall off.”   
“You always had the flair for the dramatic, Hawke,” Fenris replies stoically.  
Hawke slaps him lightly on the shoulder and snaps with mock horror, “Fenris, imagine how horrified I would be if your feet fell off. I would have no idea how to attach them back on, and I think that Anders would have too much of a stubborn grudge to attach them back on nicely.” Her tone drops from its mock horror to another pleading one, and she wheedles, “For me, at least, love. Your feet will be  _ ever _ so cold.”  
Fenris snorts and pushes her hand off his shoulder. “Snow is an inconvenience,” he grumbles.

Hawke is undeterred and twists her fingers with Fenris’s own. He relents at that and repositions their hands so that they’re in a more comfortable position.   
“But it’s so lovely!” Hawke exclaims. “Snowball fights, Fenris, snowball fights! And snow angels!” She pauses and muses, “Then again, the snow angels in Ferelden tended to be more like mud angels because the dirt and mud would mix in with the ice and snow. But when the snow was fresher and thicker, it was white and lovely!”   
Fenris blinks and falls back into memories from his own winters in Tevinter. “Tevinter was…” he says hesitantly. “Warm. Hot. Humid. Warm.” His lip curls as he continues, “No snow except for the mountains further south and the ice spells that the magisters cast.”

Hawke sighs, exasperated this time, and says, “Oh, honestly, by Andraste’s tits, please wear something warmer. Here, hold on, I’m taking over as your official winter wardrobe decision-maker.”  She unloops her own scarf from her neck and loosely wraps it around Fenris’s neck. His eyes widen as she takes off her hat and her gloves and her coat. Hawke only hums a Satinalia tune under her breath as she slips her own gloves on his hands and tucks his arms into her coat. He’s so surprised that he doesn’t even protest or make a fight about it. Then, she bends down and glances up while arching her eyebrow. “Lift your foot up,” she says firmly.

“Hawke, no,” Fenris says as he finds his voice again. “These are your own clothes. You don’t have to do this.”   
“Fenris, please,” she laughs right back. Her expression suddenly dims as she says softly, “Besides, it’s not like I have anyone else left to do this for.

A laugh is still around the edges of her expression and lips, but Fenris suddenly remembers Leandra and Carver with an acute memory that shocks him despite the time that has passed since those memories were first made. With that in mind, he shuts up and lifts his foot. Hawke pulls off her own woolen socks and boots and gently puts them on him. Fenris feels strangely pampered by it all, and he can’t help but look down at her with a loving kind of warmth bubbling up in his heart.  
Hawke claps her hand together once she finishes tying the last lace and stands back up. She swoops in to give him a small peck on the cheek and says, “There you go. All nice and bundled up.” She looks thoroughly satisfied and continues, “Let me run up and put on some warmer things, and then, we can go outside to see the snow.”

She turns to leave, but Fenris catches her by the wrist and turns her around. “If that was all you desired,” he says. “You could have looked at it through our bedroom window.”  
The word “our” feels so strange on his tongue, but it is the truth.   
“Mmm, but that’s not as fun as actually going outside,” Hawke hums

Fenris tugs Hawke closer, and his lips brush against the shell of her ear and her neck as he whispers, “I think that I would have found ways to make it fun.”  
Laughter bubbles up out of Hawke. It’s such a common sound from her, but it never fails to bring a smile to his own face, and his lips curve against Hawke’s skin. “Ohhhh, Fenris,” she sighs as she leans against him as well. Her arms lift up to wrap around him, and she says with a smile, “Don’t tempt me. Bedtime romps for the evening, yes? Snowy funtimes for now.”

Hawke slips back upstairs to hastily throw on warmer clothing again, and Fenris waits at the bottom of the stairs again. But this time, he has Hawke’s scarf wrapped around his neck and her gloves on his hands and her coat and thick socks and boots on his feet. They don’t fit perfectly, but they’re still warm and carry a trace of her scent on them. He smiles to himself at that and watches as Hawke bounds, almost dangerously so, down the stairs.

When she reaches Fenris, her hand automatically reaches out to hold Fenris’s hand, and she tugs him out to the front door. Without further ado, they head out into the wintry Kirkwall snow with laughter on their lips.


	6. feastday pranks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ★ DAY SIX || DECEMBER 23 || FEASTDAY PRANKS  
> on the sixth day, it’s time to prepare gifts for your friends… or pranks. what does friendship mean to your favorite characters? how well do they get along with others, and to what lengths are they willing to go for them?

“Well, this is unpleasant,” Morrigan sullenly says as she tugs at the scarf wrapped around her neck. “Yeah, for once, I have to agree with you,” Alistair grumbles as he tries to settle himself beside Morrigan. The scarf that wraps around both their necks is stretched taut, but it remains soft and infuriating as ever.

The Warden’s work.

Alistair bites his lip and tries not to snap back any sharp retorts at Morrigan, and instead, he turns his thoughts to what landed him in the situation in the first place. After so much bickering and yelling and after too many snide comments thrown around at the campfire, Surana had finally snapped. She looped a scarf around both their necks, ensuring that the two would be forced to be side by side, and ordered them to “get along at least for Satinalia and Feastday.” The scarf would not be taken off until they both “settled down.” Frankly, it was a testament to their friendship that neither Morrigan or Alistair moved to tear off the scarf and or yell at the Warden for it.

“You say that as if it were a terrible thing,” Morrigan suddenly says.  
“It is,” Alistair grits out.  
Morrigan lifts her chin slightly and smugly replies, “But I am usually right, and  _ you _ are usually wrong.” Alistair blinks at that and snaps back, “Excuse me?”

Suddenly, Surana clears her throat and glares at them pointedly. Morrigan and Alistair grumble softly, but they settle down reluctantly. They settle for giving each other dirty looks instead.

Barkspawn, the mabari, settles down right next to them and wags his tail at them. Morrigan and Alistair both swear that the dog looks like he’s  _ laughing  _ at them, but they can’t do anything about it. Leliana begins to hum a small Satinalia tune under her breath as she settles down to fletch a few more arrows. 

Surana stands up to walk over to her tent and rummage around for something in her pack. Morrigan’s and Alistair’s eyes follow Surana as she digs around her pack, and then, they see her stand up triumphantly. She turns around and dashes over to the campfire with her goods in her arms.   
They’re white, unlit Satinalia candles and sprigs of holly and pine. 

Leliana glances up and gasps when she sees them. “Candles? For Satinalia?” she breathlessly asks. “Where did you manage to get them and with none of us knowing?” Zevran ambles over the campfire while whistling the same Satinalia song and cheerily says, “So, is this what you wanted me to get them for, my dear Warden? I’ll have you know, it took me a great deal of time to convince Bodahn to go out and find good Satinalia candles.”  
Surana smiles and pads over to Alistair and Morrigan. She squats down in front of them and laughs, “A little holiday spirit, eh?” She hands them a candle each and tucks the sprigs of pine and holly in their hair. Then, with a pinch of her fingers, she lights the candles.

“So,” Morrigan says archly. “You want us to sit together for this  _ holiday _ out of all things? Do you not have more pressing matters on hand than this, Warden?”   
Surana sheepishly shrugs and replies, “Yeah, I guess so if you count the entire darkspawn Blight thing. But still, even we need a little lightening up. A little celebration to lift our spirits, yeah? It’s a time to reconnect and celebrate our friendship. And yes, that includes you, Morrigan, my dear and wonderful friend.” She swivels to face Alistair and claps, “And you too, Alistair, my favorite Warden. Friendship is important, and I don’t want you two to continue bickering and fighting like wildcats in the middle of Satinalia.”

Leliana starts to sing, and even Zevran joins in and claps along to the rhythm. Shale and Oghren amble over, intrigued, and Barkspawn wags his tail harder and harder. Wynne comes out of her tent, humming the song as well. Sten remains near the outskirts of the camp, but his eyes are trained on the campfire instead.  
Surana passes out the rest of her candles and places her springs behind ears and in hair, and in Shale’s case, in the cracks between the stone. She hums along to the song as well and even does a little twirl with Zevran while handing him a candle. She claps her hands, and all the candles ignite.

It’s strange, especially considering how they’re all on the run from Loghain and how they’re in the middle of the Blight. A rare moment of happiness and warmth and joy

Morrigan twists her lips as she observes it all, and ever so quietly, she whispers, “Perhaps, this is not as bad as I initially believed.” Alistair whips his head around to stare at her and says incredulously, “No way. I did not hear what you just said.” Morrigan raises an eyebrow at Alistair and says simply, “I did. ‘Tis rare to see such a moment like this, but I do not dislike it.”  
Alistair leans a little bit away from her, and the scarf tugs him right back. “Well,” he hesitantly says. “It’s really not bad at all. Satinalia’s fun.” He quiets and flushes pink before he says, “Maybe… Maybe you’re not as bad. Still witchy though. But I probably wouldn’t kill you or anything.” Morrigan snorts, “You are still a fool, but I will admit, not the kind of fool that I would instantly kill.”

The tension between the two melts away slightly despite the scarf that keeps them stuck together. As the motley group of ragtag adventurers and defenders sing, small snowflakes begin to drift down from the skies. But the flames from the campfire and the white candles continue to burn and warm every single person with a kind of warmth that was more than just flame. 


End file.
